Shortcuts
by WhosJeebus
Summary: Sam obsesses, Dean snarks, and the world continues to happily revolve around them both.


_**Shortcuts**_

**xxxxxXXXxxxxx**

Sam's obsession with shortcuts is starting to drive me a little nuts.

It began with a road atlas and a few gas station maps, and just... _grew_ from there. Oh, and the pink hi-liter. You wouldn't _believe _the amount of shit I gave him for that. He claims it's the color that shows up best against all the map-squiggles and symbol thingies, but he couldn't honestly think I was gonna let that go. As if.

Now the back of the Impala is filled with pages of topographical surveys, satellite photo print-outs, and, honest-to-god, a digital voice recorder. He actually makes a point to question the locals about the shortest route from Hell-And-Be-Gone, Iowa, to Shitsplat, Indiana. He even twisted my arm and made me pull over at a Kinko's in the middle of the night, just so he could go in and print out what I'm guessing is the entire archive from He's totally losing it. Not to mention getting on my last nerve.

This is really getting out of hand. I should probably have a talk with him about it. I _can_ actually do subtle, when the situation calls for it. What? I so can. Here, watch.

"Dude, you _do_ realize that we just blew fifty bucks that we technically don't have, in order to cut nine tenths of a mile off our roadtrip. Are you having a mental breakdown that we need to discuss?"

Sam shuffles some papers around and glares at me over the top of Rand McNally. I swear, I'm _this_ close to renaming it the Sacred Grimoire.

"Seriously, Sam. I'm starting to think that you just don't value our quality time together. It's like you're trying to find the best way of spending the least amount of time in the car with me. I'm hurt."

"Well, you _did _eat a whole sackful of burritos last night. Maybe my self preservation instincts are finally kicking in."

Dude, if only that were true. Then I wouldn't have to worry so damned much.

Hey, wait a minute. My dietary habits aren't open for debate here. I guess maybe that approach was just a bit _too _subtle. Sammy can be a dense motherfucker when he wants to be.

"You know, you're the one who's always bitching about how we get by when we're on the road. 'Defrauding the consumers' this, and 'visiting exorbitant interest rates on Joe Q. Public' that." Ha! And he thinks I don't listen. Up yours, buddy boy! "Don't you think all the cash you've been funneling into your new hobby is kinda... wasteful?"

"Not wasteful," he mumbles, already back to ignoring me. "Helpful." Something apparently clicks in that freakish head of his. He looks over at me and grins nastily. "Exorbitant, huh?"

"What?"

God, I hate the wide-eyed innocent look. No, wait. I love it, too. Damn him.

"Nothing."

That little shit. "Look here, brainiac. You _saw _me toss that word-a-day calendar in the trash, so don't go getting any ideas. You're just lucky I didn't light it on fire and shove it up your ass instead. I was fucking _insulted_, you know."

"Really? 'Cause I find that the best birthday presents are ones that the recipient will get the most use out of. But hey, that's just me."

Oh, he did _not_ just call me stupid. Well, technically he didn't, but I know Sam, and I know _exactly_ what he meant by even suggesting that I might need -- you know what? Nevermind. Water under the bridge, my friends. I see what this is, and he's just wanting to change the subject. He can try all day long if that's what frosts his cookies, but I'm not letting this go. Not just yet.

Gripping the steering wheel helps take my mind off of wrapping my fingers around his throat and squeezing until his eyeballs pop. I love him to death, but damned if he doesn't know just what buttons to push. He thinks he's clever, but it's way past time to disavow him of that notion.

Yeah, I said disavow. You wanna make something of it? Good. Now stop making faces and let me tell this my way, or you'll be next.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Sam was busy trying to wriggle out of our little talk. No such luck, bro.

"Anyway, all I'm saying is that this shortcut thing is starting to go a little overboard. If you need to kill some time while we're on the road, I might be convinced to bend the 'driver picks the music' rule every now and then. Little to no ass-kissing involved, scout's honor."

Damn. I am fucking magnanimous sometimes. All heart, baby, that's me. And don't start that eyebrow shit again, okay? Just... don't. My vocabulary is awesome. I don't have to prove anything to you.

"Mmm. Sure."

Jesus, it's like I'm not even here. Everything I've said so far must be going through a four-second time delay to reach his brain. Obsess much, Sammy? He glances over at me again, all furrow-browed. "Define overboard. And you were never a Boy Scout."

Uh-oh. Now I've started the gears turning. That's my Sammy, alright. If he's not over-thinking, then he's not breathing. Or he's a doppelganger. The rules are strange for us, sometimes.

"Now, don't go getting your panties in a twist. I didn't mean anything by suggesting that your little hobby is starting to freak me out -- "

"Freak you out? You're freaked out? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Dammit all to hell. He's getting red-faced and working himself up into a full-on rant over _this_? I've got balls of steel, but I'm not ashamed to admit that my first instinct is to crank the stereo knob and kill this subject deader than dammit. Even _I _know when to suck it up and head for the hills.

"And it's not a hobby, Dean! It's a vital contribution to the mission! 'Hobby' implies that I'm just doing this for shits and giggles, and I'm not!"

"I never said you weren't contributing! Where would you get a ridiculous idea like -- "

"Oh, so now I'm being ridiculous!"

"Would you stop putting words in my mouth?"

"Putting words in your mouth? You just fucking _said_ it!"

"You're taking things out of context, god dammit! I didn't mean it that -- "

"Taking things out of context?"

"Stop repeating everything I say!" That took the wind out of his sails a little bit.

"Well... then stop saying stupid shit!"

He's breathing heavy, looking a little wild-eyed and cornered. Holy shit, I've really hit a nerve with this.

"Sammy..."

"It's _Sam."_

"You wanna clue me in on what this is _really_ all about?" I can almost smell a chick-flick moment creeping up on us, but I'm not backing down now. Something's eating at him, and I need him in full working order if we're ever gonna find Dad. Plus, if Sam's hurting, then I am too. Don't read anything into that, alright? We're family, and in the grand scheme of things, that's what matters most to me. 'Nuff said.

"It's just that..." He's looking out the window, avoiding eye contact. Trust me, Sammy. This is harder on me than you'll ever realize. I don't _do _heart-to-hearts. "There's _power_ in doing this, you know?"

Not really. But I've never had any idea how Sam's mind works, and there's no way in hell I'm gonna interrupt now that I've finally got him to spill his guts. I nod my head and keep my gaze focused on the road ahead.

"I couldn't save Jess, and we're not any closer to finding out where Dad's run off to..."

His hands are twisting together, doing a frustrated little dance in his lap. And I'm gonna end up biting through my lip to keep from yelling at him to get on with it. Fucking _talk_ to me here, Sam.

"And now... now I have these abilities, and they're practically useless. We didn't get there in time to save the Millers, and my stab at amateur psychology practically_ drove _Max to pull the trigger. I've been wracking my brain for some way of dealing with being so... impotent -- not one fucking _squeak_ from you about my word choice -- and I just haven't come up with much of anything. Well, not until now, I guess."

Oh, man. Why is he doing this to himself? I stretch my neck and scoot down in my seat a bit more. Because he's Sam, that's why.

"You want me to pull off the interstate so we can go sit down somewhere?"

"No, Dean. Just let me get it out, okay? I'll be fine in minute." He turns back to me and holds some map up in front of his face. I'm really not fond of the self-mocking ghost of a smile I see there. This is definitely not the same Sam who left for Stanford four years ago, and I wish I didn't have to keep reminding myself of that fact.

"This is just an outlet, I suppose. Insurance for the next time." His gaze is burning a hole in the side of my head, but I don't dare turn to meet it. "Because we both know that's there's gonna be a next time, right, Dean?"

He's not truly looking for confimation, but he's not deliberately picking a fight anymore, either. I'd say that's progress, of a sort. "I won't argue that."

"Good. Then you just do your thing, and I'll do mine, how does that sound?"

"Sammy..."

"Jesus Christ! It's Sam, for the hundredth time!"

He sounds royally pissed off, but once again, it's an improvement. I smile back at him, and he does that head-ducking thing I remember from when we were kids. Maybe he's not so different, after all.

"If I promise to tone it down some, stop 'freaking you out' so much, will you try harder to remember my fucking name?"

Now that's about as much of a concession as I'm going to get from my stubborn little brother, and I'm just fine with that. "I think I can accept your terms, Madame Prime Minister."

"Funny." He flicks the map at me, and I barely hold myself back from ruffling his hair. I don't want to undo all the great breakthroughs we've made today by pulling off the road and handing his ass to him. It's just not practical.

"Dean..." His voice is low, but it doesn't have that _threatened_ quality to it anymore.

"Yeah?"

"I'll hold you to it." His whole posture is more relaxed, and the maps lay forgotten on the floorboard for the moment. I feel like I've just made a deal with the devil, but in our line of work, that feeling is not so unusual, or even uncomfortable.

I can tell he's starting to squirm from the after-effects of being so open and serious, but that's just one more way I know he's actually my brother. The silence isn't heavy between us, but he's definitely getting... antsy. It's obvious he wants to return to the shelter of his maps and diagrams, but I'm proud of him for denying the urge. That mile-wide stubborn streak _does_ have its perks.

He's fishing around for something to say, and I'm even more relieved when it comes out sounding close to normal.

"I'm gettin' kinda hungry, Dean. Let's take the next exit and grab something to eat." He squints at me and adds, "But no Mexican this time."

"Rules of the road, Sammy, err... I mean, _Sam_. Driver picks the food. Shotgun shuts his -- "

"Then pull over right the fuck now. _I'm _driving."

"Sure thing. Hey, does that mean I get to play with your pink hi-liter?"

Damn, it's good to hear him laugh again. All bullshit and deep, meaningful conversations aside, I think we're gonna be alright. Can't ask for much more than that. Not when you're a Winchester.

**xxxxxXXXxxxxx**

_end_


End file.
